The Violinist
by timenspace
Summary: John meets a mysterious homeless man who also seems to believe in Sherlock.  Sherlock/John implied, NOT ONE-SIDED. :D


**Title: **The Violinist**  
>Fandom: <strong>Sherlock, BBC**  
>Characters: <strong>Sherlock [disguised], John, post Reichenbach**  
>Rating: <strong>T**  
>Summary: <strong>John meets a mysterious homeless man who also seems to believe in Sherlock.  
>SherlockJohn implied, NOT ONE-SIDED. :D**  
>Author's Note: <strong>This was a roleplay written with **mightbeblogging** in LiveJournal. It has been adapted for fanfiction, therefore not all dialouge is mine. I don't own them, anyway. As for the piece I had both the "violin solo" from Secrets by One Republic, and "Tomorrow" from Annie, so you can read it how you like.

He's been watching John for several minutes, talking to Raz about his newest creation painted on the wall of St. Bart's. It's unlikely the boy will get arrested on an ASBO, but still, he's watching - in case.

He rubs a bit of dust from his cheek - somewhat self-consciously, even though it's unlikely in this attire that John will even recognize him. He's disguised, somewhat of a bedraggled appearance of just someone from the Homeless Network. The faded green hood of the jacket is drawn up over reddish hair that seems to have not been combed in several weeks. Also unlikely he's had a shave - but there's no signs that he hasn't bathed - after all, there were churches for that, and he would rather take advantage of that while he's still in London. He has to leave on the Tube today, he's made enough for a rather nice private car of his own. Raz is motioning him over, unaware of his identity as well. He shuffles, walking in the manner of one of the people he's supposed to be. Fitting in, something he's definatly not accustomed to, but something he is capable of being good at.

He nods at Raz's work, trying to appear appreciative. There's a violin case - there's two older looking bullet holes in it that he's carrying under the crook of one arm.

"There seem to be so many that believe in him." John's voice. He doesn't make eye contact with the speaker, it isn't _proper, _but this warrents a response.

The Network still do. Pr'bly always will. Tha's graffiti everywhere. Tha' yellow Mic'gan stuff.

He has a gravelly tone in the thick brogue, as though someone who doesn't often speak, or has a respiratory issue from sleeping out of doors too often. It hides the words that normally roll of his tongue like velvet.

John hasn't suspected a thing since he started talking to this particular homeless man. Then again, he's started to become resigned to the fact that Sherlock won't be presenting some grand miracle anytime soon... if ever. The good doctor isn't quite himself, but drawn in, paler and skinnier than usual. Harry has been trying to get him to eat, but he hasn't had much of an appetite lately. It doesn't take much deduction to figure that out.

"That's good... that you're still loyal to him. He'd appreciate it."

He keeps his gaze directed downward, hiding the eyes even with their gray contact lenses. They'll betray his concern. John has visibly lost weight, it appears he gives up on sleeping most nights. He isn't eating properly - in fact it looks as though the jumper underneath his coat seems a little too loose. "Thin' he'd appr'ciate th' same fr'm you, sir. Ev'ryone 'e cared ab't, 're they well?"

He expects half-lies, and does not expect to hear about Molly or Mrs. Hudson. Nor does he ask about Mycroft. In fact, he's a little surprised big brother hasn't found him by now.

John frowns at the question, he shrugs a shoulder lightly, glancing away again. "They all... miss him, I think, in their own ways... but I'm sure everyone is getting by. Life goes on without Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah. S'pose it does. 'E'd want yeh to care ab't yerself tho. Yeh don't look well." There. It's slipped out and for a moment he thinks for sure John will recognize him. He won't beg. Unless John offers. It just doesn't seem right after the conversation. Maybe in another disguise. But that doesn't change the fact he still needs pocket change - after he is to arrive in Rome. "I'll play fer yeh fer a shillin' if you like." Contrary to what he wants everyone to think, he does care, even though at the moment it is not pleasent to entertain such thoughts.

For a moment, John thinks something is terribly familiar about this man. His eyes narrow, and he focuses on him. But... no, it can't be. He's just looking for hope anywhere and everything, hope that his best friend didn't actually leave him like that. Still, his expression hardens a bit, cautious, suspicious, he nods, reaching into his pocket to pull out the requested money. He watches the other man too closely, too hopefully.

He pockets the shilling gratefully, then takes the violin out of its' case. The old thing looks as though it's received a few bullets as well - looks as though all the strings have been replaced, though some time ago now.

He tries not to keep up the old mannerisms of furrowing his brow when he plays. He doesn't tune - it's been tuned multiple times - and John is already suspicious enough.

He plays a simple tune, one that's rather easy for his nimble fingers. Full of hope that really shouldn't exist. Of course it's a completely different composition than normal - but it is not usually played on the violin either. And it's American, typically not his style.

If John asks, he can rattle off it's one of Wagner's rejected pieces or it's from a foriegn play and he will most likely believe the tale. He surprised the man can't hear him grinding his teeth against the emotion that threatens to well. He finishes the piece with a flourish, nods to John, and goes back in another direction. Carrying both his case and his violin.

John watches him very closely, following the line of the man's arm, to his long, elegant fingers, moving so deftly upon the strings as the other hand guides that bow gracefully. How many times had he listened to Sherlock play? Enough that even the image of a stranger playing makes him tear up. The corners of his eyes prickle, but the tears do not immediately flow. He's still the soldier, holding it back, holding it in, against a stiff upper lip. He doesn't like to crumble, especially in front of people he doesn't know, out in public.

After the man stands to leave, John doesn't look up. He's covered his face with one hand, trying to hold back tears that dampen his cheeks, anyway. When he removes his hands and opens his eyes, he only sees the back of that homeless man, already disappearing into the crowd... and he's struck, suddenly, with the urge to follow him, to not let him get away. Almost without realizing why, knowing he's being an idiot, but also knowing he saw something, something that stayed with him, John hurries after the familiar stranger as quickly as he can.

"Wait! Please, stop..." there's hesitation, disbelief. " ... Sherlock?"

_Get the violin back in the case. Get out of here. Get on the Tube. It's not done yet. You can't. You bloody idiot_. The thoughts race as he weaves through the crowd. Blending in. He hears the footfalls close behind him.

_You stupid bloody idiot. You shouldn't have taken Raz up on that offer. _

His name. John is saying his name. He freezes for a moment, standing ramrod straight, but he can't turn around. His brain is going to takeover as he focuses, telling him to move. _Move, idiot!_

John might not have caught up with him if the other man didn't suddenly freeze like that. It catches the doctor off guard for a second, and he actually stumbles a bit. What better indicator that this might actually be Sherlock Holmes than for him to stop when his name is called like that? Swallowing hard, he continues on, pushing his way through people, mumbling 'excuse me' and 'pardon me,' but not really paying them much mind. All he knows is that his best friend, the one who he had to watch jump off a building, then see his otherworldly face covered with blood - he was here, it had to be him.

His voice is pleading. He won't make it in time, even as reaches out for the taller man, the one he thought was just some homeless, faceless man when in all actuality... it could be the most important man in his life, the one he'd thought he'd lost.

_Turn around now, and the plan goes to ruin. Don't answer the man, and he'll be more suspicious._ The brief emotion that crossed his face just now is replaced by the usual icy look. Though because of the contacts it's softer than normal. John is so close he could reach out and touch him if he wanted. He speaks over his shoulder, maintaining the disguised accent, though his voice comes out huskier than he meant it to.

"I think yeh've got me mistaken for someone 'oo by def'nition sir, is six feet under. Ap'logies for the bother."

He then disappears - what he should have done in the first place.

John stands there, stunned, a little whiter than is considered healthy. His jaw is working, as he just watches the strange man leave. It's a longer moment before he turns to walk away himself, back to a life devoid of purpose and meaning, a life that was taken away when his best friend jumped without him.

The coat is exchanged for a bit more suitable attire. He pays for a private bunk car on the Tube to Belgium, after first getting a change of clothes, making some quick money in Brixton for his violin playing, as well as picking a few pockets. He paces at first, trying to walk the emotion out of his system, shouting at himself - but the emotion will not be withheld anymore. He bangs his head against the side of the car, trying to shock his brain back into his usual composure that he is already loosing.

Defeated, he places his head in his hands, a strange foreign dampness on his angular features.

This is why he is unattached in the first place. This blasted mission of his has to be over with before they both lose their minds. And he'll need more cash if he expects to maintain his sanity. He'll have to numb these strange, foreign feelings as quickly as he makes enough to pay for anomonimity.

Dying was more difficult than he thought it would be.


End file.
